Closure
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: In which Treavor Pendleton learns the fate of his brothers.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **__So many Pendleton feels. I just HAD to do this. I never really liked the idea of Treavor never getting closure with his brothers and, even though this probably doesn't work canon-wise in terms of the timeline, etc, I don't really care. _

_I also wrote this because in my other _Dishonored_ fic I'm not sure what fate I wanted to give the Pendleton twins - death or enslavement - so wrote this just to get it out of my system._

_Also published on my Tumblr account._

* * *

"Please accept my sincerest condolences, Lord Pendleton," the Lord Regent said with a sympathetic smile.

Treavor inclined his head. "Thank you," he replied softly. He lowered his eyes for a moment and caught the glitter of the gold signet ring on his finger – identical to the ring that Morgan and Custis used to wear, proudly bearing the Pendleton seal. Now, it was Treavor's job to display the family crest with as much pride as he could muster.

Hiram Burrows delicately cleared his throat, drawing Treavor from his brief reverie. "I am most grateful that we could meet today, Lord Pendleton. I know that circumstances are difficult for you at the moment but I appreciate that you realize just how important your family's mines and factories are to the city."

Treavor bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smirking. Burrows had wanted to sweep the Pendleton businesses under his arm, nationalizing them under some new emergency statute, but Treavor had the good sense to have the necessary papers drawn up, granting him full control of the shipping lanes, the factories, and the mines. Now, Burrows was the one simpering and smiling politely. He _needed _the family businesses; he _needed_ Treavor's favour.

"Has there been any word on your brothers?" Burrows asked, his eyebrows rising on his long, shiny forehead.

"No." Treavor dropped his gaze again. His hand was so very pale against the black of his trousers. He had been in mourning now for three days, ever since the City Watch had first knocked on his door on the Pendleton estate to tell him that his brothers were missing. Of course their visit was not unexpected; nevertheless, Treavor played the role of horrified younger brother well and, after providing an alibi (which Lord Brisby was more than happy to support), he set to work preparing himself and the Pendleton estate for mourning.

He hated wearing black; it did absolutely nothing for his complexion. And he hated how everyone _knew_. The mourning garments that Wallace so carefully and neatly prepared at the start of every day – black hose, black knee-breeches, a black waistcoat, a black frockcoat, a black cravat or necktie (depending), and a cream-colored shirt (like a dash of milk in his black coffee at breakfast) – were a red flag, a beacon, to everyone that Treavor encountered. They _knew_ about his brothers. Their voices were soft, their eyes full of concern; even that poisonous wench, Waverly Boyle, had invited him over for tea so that she could offer him her deepest condolences and (she had reached across the table for his hand) anything else that he needed. Once – before his brothers went missing – Treavor had dreamed of being treated so delicately, of being on the receiving end of such warmth and kindness; now, all the sympathy and compassion felt like a burden.

"I can't imagine what this is like for you, my Lord," Burrows said with a thoughtful frown. "The uncertainty must be unbearable."

"It is." Treavor offered Burrows a limp smile. "But life goes on, no?"

The Lord Regent's face was ashen, sickly; he sweated excessively. The corners of his eyes and his cheeks were creased with deep lines of worry. Treavor didn't bother suppressing the smirk that curved his lips. First the corrupt High Overseer was branded a heretic and expelled from the Abbey and then Morgan and Custis Pendleton disappeared without a trace. Burrows' allies were falling and, with them, the support for his reign was fading. He _should_ be worried.

Panic flashed briefly in Burrows' eyes and Treavor knew exactly what awful thought had just struck him: Morgan and Custis had controlled the entirety of the Pendleton voting block. They supported every political move made by Burrows without question. Treavor, however, was not so easily manipulated. Now, _he_ controlled the seats necessary for Burrows to remain absolutely bound to the throne and, after years spent with _no_ power whatsoever, Treavor planned to make the Lord Regent – and his brothers – pay. Burrows knew this; but he didn't know how to buy Treavor Pendleton.

Burrows forced a tight smile; his teeth flashed in a disgusting way. "Let me just say again, Lord Pendleton, that your support is invaluable. To put aside your own grief and pick up where your brothers left off is commendable. Dunwall was built on two things, you know: whale oil and Pendleton silver."

Treavor sighed and inspected his fingernails, affecting a bored air. "Yes, well, my brothers did grow rather slack towards the end. Mismanaged funds, factories being run into the ground, slipping production at the mines…" Then, he tipped his chin proudly. "I plan to rectify these problems. The Pendleton name will engender awe and respect once more."

"My Lord, it _never_ lost the city's awe or respect."

Treavor sniffed sharply. Burrows really was grasping at straws. The youngest Lord Pendleton felt his chest puff out and his shoulders square as the gravity of the whole situation hit him: he was now _in charge_. Everything was _his_. He had the Lord bloody Regent practically grovelling like a servant desperate for a raise! Treavor swept away an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "I'll be inspecting the mines today, actually. If I am to start anywhere in turning things around for the family name, it's there."

"Very good idea, Lord Pendleton. I'll send a squad of guards to escort you. I don't wish to alarm you but there is a very dangerous individual running around the city, intent on causing as much panic as possible. Your brothers were his most recent targets but perhaps you could be next?"

_If only you knew_, Treavor thought, swallowing down a chuckle. He politely inclined his head. "I'm most grateful for your concern, Lord Regent."

* * *

The ride to the mines was a journey that Treavor had never taken, because his elder brothers had insisted on freezing him out of the family business. He was in the car for at least an hour and then, when he and Burrows' escort were beyond the city limits, they all transferred to carriages. There were no paved streets and no rails for the cars. Everything was fresh and _green_; the air was clean and cool, with no traces of decay or rot drifting into the carriage through the open window. The countryside was a welcome change from the grungy bleakness of Dunwall. Idly, Treavor wondered why he had never before taken more holidays outside the city.

Suddenly, the landscape changed and Treavor felt his heartbeat quicken. Instead of trees and greenery, there were low, dark mountains that rolled on in a seemingly endless chain towards the horizon. The lush grass gradually faded and was replaced by coarse dirt and gravel. There were new scents in the air – sour sweat and bitter metal – and new sounds too – shouting in a language Treavor has never heard before and the regular crunch of rocks.

His hands began shaking. He had never before been to the silver mines but as the head of the Pendleton family, it was now his duty to oversee them. And he also had an ulterior motive, one which he has not divulged to anybody. Not even Wallace. With trembling fingers, he fumbled in his pocket for a note (tattered from the hours he had spent reading and re-reading it) and he unfolded it to stare at the unfamiliar hand:_Your brothers are alive. Two new acquisitions at the mines. Twins, shaved heads, tongues cut out._

Treavor wasn't sure who had delivered him the anonymous note. It had come to him one morning during his most recent stay at Pendleton Manor. The first time he had read the ominous words, he felt a stab of strange hope. Corvo had not told him anything of his brothers' fate, and Treavor didn't dare ask. The only thing he knew was that they were missing. He had waited for a ransom note to be delivered to him but when nothing came, he had assumed the worst. There had been the memorial service at Pendleton Manor, with grieving friends and acquaintances dropping into the family home to pay their respects, and a large plaque mounted at Parliament House in memory of the Pendleton twins. And yet, no bodies. No closure.

Treavor wasn't stupid. The anonymous note could be a trick. A lie. He didn't dare get his hopes up and regularly quashed them with thoughts of, _They're dead. Why would Corvo have left them alive? After what they did to Lady Emily? _but a small flame still burned in his heart.

Truth be told, he couldn't understand _why_ the note engendered such hope in him. His brothers were alive; so what? They were bastards and, if Treavor cast his mind back to his childhood, he could easily find a _hundred_ reasons why he should wish they were dead: the vipers in his crib, the beatings, the cruel pranks, the mockery, that hunting trip when he had almost _died_…

Still, Treavor couldn't help but wonder. And his wonder drove him to action. He had made a plan to visit the mines, to try and find the twins. And _if_ he found them – shaved and abused, but _alive_ – then what?

The carriage ground to a halt and Treavor stepped out. The sun was high in the sky and beat down on the youngest Lord Pendleton as strongly as Morgan's fists. He raised a hand to weakly shield his face and then cursed himself for leaving Wallace at home. But he couldn't have taken the manservant along; he wouldn't have understood. And Wallace had spent decades denying the very existence of the Pendleton mines, as though to protect Treavor from judgment from the other aristocrats. No, the first visit to the mines was a personal matter that Treavor had to do _alone_.

He and his entourage were met by a gruff man who introduced himself as the foreman of the mines. "I didn't know that the late Lords Pendleton _had_ a younger brother," he said slowly, almost apologetically.

Treavor narrowed his eyes. He could feel his skin burning in the midday sun. "Yes, well, I was never in charge of such things," he muttered in reply.

They walked through the dusty haze that hung in the air and stood looking down into what appeared to be a large crater peppered with dark tunnels and shafts. There was a network of rails snaking from the dark holes that had been carved out of the earth, upon which dozens and dozens of carts trundled, full of mineral ore.

The glitter of silver caught Treavor's eye and he felt his heart swell with pride. And hunger. After years of being on the bottom rung of the Pendleton name, he was now in charge. The silver that he saw being carted from the mines was _his_ and with it, he would hold great sway over the city. Perhaps the first time Morgan and Custis had come to the mines, they had felt the exact same stab of superiority, the exact same thrill of unbridled power. Perhaps Treavor was not as different from his brothers as he liked to think.

The foreman stood with his hands folded neatly behind his back, his feet shoulder-width apart. A military stance. He was _proud_ of the mines, proud of the efficient little clockwork world he ran.

Treavor couldn't quite grasp the sheer number of slaves that worked at the mines. There were at least several hundred working outside – pushing carts along the rails or working to break down larger chunks of metal ore – but there was no telling how many slaves labored underground, out of sight. Thousands. Perhaps more. He felt mildly ill just thinking about it.

He watched them, passing between the mine shafts and the carts with the speed and efficiency of ants in their anthill. He had never before seen a Pandyssian. They were dark-skinned, lithe, with long limbs. With their heads shaved and their pathetic scraps of fabric that passed for clothing, it was hard to tell who was female and who was male. Treavor made a mental note to ask the foreman how the genders were separated, if at all.

"They work well, it seems," the youngest Lord Pendleton remarked.

"Very well," the foreman grunted in reply.

"How often are they rested?"

"Between sundown and sunrise."

Treavor considered this. "With the blockade preventing me from acquiring new – ah – laborers, perhaps we may have to think about resting them more often. Periodically throughout the day. They're no use to me, or the Lord Regent, if they die on their feet."

The foreman rubbed his chin and shrugged.

Suddenly, an alarm sounded down in the crater. There were shouts, screams, hounds barking. Treavor watched as a figure – white, not as malnourished as the others – dashed from one of the mine shafts. There were half a dozen slave-masters chasing it, and two hounds snarling at its heels.

One of the hounds lunged, latched onto the figure's leg, and didn't let go. The slave and hound twisted on the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust; even from his position high above the crater, Treavor could easily make out the dark stain of blood mixing with the dirt.

The foreman cursed and spat on the ground.

The screams of the slave carried all the way from the crater up to Treavor: hollow, hoarse, angry. The slave-masters descended on the escapee with their whips and bludgeons. They dragged the hound away, with its dripping jowls and low snarls.

"This is the fifth time he's tried that," the foreman muttered.

Treavor tried to keep his voice level. "Who is he?"

"A new one. Came to us only a few days ago."

Treavor swallowed; he could feel his heartbeat thumping in his throat. "He seems rather defiant," he said with a severe arch of his eyebrow.

"He hasn't been broken yet. Give it time. They _all_ need to be broken. After that, they don't stand up to _anyone_." The foreman reached for his belt and handed Treavor a pair of brass binoculars. "You wanna take a look?"

With trembling fingers, Treavor took the binoculars and focused them on the pale-skinned slave. He was writhing on the ground, twisting, hunching against the slave-masters' onslaught. The hound had shredded his calf, leaving folds of ragged flesh hanging and dripping. A disabling wound, not a killing wound. The hounds had obviously been trained to keep the slaves in check. The slave-masters looked rough; they were tall and strong, maybe ex-City Watch guards who had become too cruel for the streets but just cruel enough for the silver mines.

Then, another figure entered Treavor's line of vision: another slave, pale, slightly smaller than the one on the ground. He appeared to be pleading with the slave-masters, all placating gestures and submissive body language, trying to put himself between the whips and his fellow slave. He was roughly knocked to the ground and then proceeded to receive the same treatment as his companion.

The foreman chuckled darkly. "Ain't no use tryna talk to us. The bastards had their tongues cut out."

The whipping continued. There was so much blood; the slaves' exposed flesh was a mess of red, weeping welts. Treavor's stomach twitched. "Did you do that?" he asked, his jaw suddenly very tight.

"Nah. They came to us that way."

"Where did they come from?"

The foreman shrugged. "Dunno. Someone dropped them off one morning. Said they were useless in their old roles and they needed to be put to work and taught a lesson." He grinned, showing off a mouthful of blackened teeth. "I wasn't complainin'."

It all made sense then. Morgan, the larger of the twins, strong and violent, would not take too kindly to being enslaved in his own silver mines. Of _course_ he was the would-be escapee. And Custis, not prone to physical violence, was intelligent and sharp and the more business-minded of the two. Of _course_ he would try and make a deal with the slave-masters – or, as best he could without a tongue.

There were two very strong emotions roiling inside Treavor as he watched his brothers being beaten. On the one hand, seeing Morgan and Custis get their just desserts was strangely satisfying. To see them so fearful, so abused, was the most delicious kind of justice. After years and years and _years_ of making Treavor suffer they were _finally _being punished. _Finally_, they knew what it was like. _Finally_.

On the other hand, though, Treavor hated seeing his brothers being treated so cruelly. He felt something resembling pity for them. They were the lords of Pendleton Manor, the heirs to an ancient and powerful title; they used to dine in the finest noble homes, wear silk shirts that cost more than their slave-masters made in a year, and debate the fate of the Empire inside the hallowed halls of Parliament House. Now, they wore collars like common dogs and had to endure being whipped like disobedient servants. It was unthinkable, and disgusting to watch, and Treavor hated himself for taking such pleasure in their pain.

"I'd like to go down and see them," he said with a sharp sniff.

"Lord Pendleton, I don't think that's such a good idea."

"I have been given an escort from the Lord Regent," Treavor snapped. "Nothing is going to happen to me. These are _my_ slaves now and I would like to _see _them."

"As you wish," the foreman sighed.

The group wandered down into the crater. Treavor plucked a crisp handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed gently at his face.

The twins were still being beaten as Treavor and his entourage approached. The smack of leather on wet, bloody flesh made him flinch. The hounds continued to bark and snarl from the sidelines. "What did I just say to you?" Treavor growled, rounding on the foreman. "I can't get any _more_ workers. They are no use to me if they die. So _why_ do you insist on beating these two to _death_?"

The foreman smirked. "Lord Pendleton, I've already explained it to you: they are yet to be broken. We aren't going to beat them to death, I assure you. But they do need to learn that trying to escape comes with great punishment."

The twins were screaming, begging in their own disfigured way, for the slave-masters to stop. Their arms flailed, their legs kicked out, their faces were contorted into the most horrific masks of pain and fear and hatred…

"What will happen to them after this?"

The foreman jerked his chin across the crater, where half a dozen metal sheds were lined up, directly beneath the sun. "The hot box. We'll put 'em in there for a few hours. They sweat out any disobedience. It settles them right down."

Treavor felt faint just thinking about it. He knew all too well the pain of being locked inside cramped, dark spaces for hours on end; it was one of Morgan's favourite pranks. The youngest Lord Pendleton simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

The twins continued to scream. Treavor caught a glimpse inside the black holes of their mouths and felt his stomach heave at the sight of the raw, pink stumps where their tongues used to be. Matching stumps, just like everything else the twins shared.

"Stop," Treavor rasped, his hands trembling.

"My Lord?" the foreman questioned.

"I said _stop_, damn you!" Treavor snarled in reply as his body was wracked by a tremor.

The foreman whistled through his teeth, catching the attention of the slave-masters, and he waved them away with a lazy hand.

Morgan and Custis remained curled up in the dirt, shaking, bracing for more. When they realized that the slave-masters had been called off, they tentatively glanced about; the shackles on their wrists and ankles clinked and rattled. There was a slash on Morgan's forehead, dripping blood into his eyes; Custis' lip was split and there was a swollen lump on his shaved scalp.

Treavor drew several shaky breaths as Custis' eyes – dark, matching Morgan's – met his. There was utter disbelief in Custis' eyes and he groped blindly for his twin's shoulder. Morgan, panting like an animal, shrugged Custis' hand away. He, too, looked up at Treavor and instead of disbelief shining in his eyes, there was only hatred. He bared his teeth in a snarl.

The foreman gave Morgan a sharp kick in the side. "I wouldn't behave like that if I was you," he grunted, "or you'll get another round with the dog." He chuckled. "He's got a taste for you, too."

Morgan, undeterred by the threat, lunged at Treavor and just managed to grab at the hem of his frockcoat before one of the slave-masters dragged him back by the collar and delivered three sharp blows with the whip.

Treavor couldn't help but scream; he stumbled backwards, threatening to land on his ass in the dirt, and Burrows' guards crowded around him in a protective huddle.

"Don't worry, Lord Pendleton. We'll break this one soon enough." The foreman grinned ferally. "I look forward to it."

"N-no," Treavor mumbled. He clenched his fists; his entire body was trembling. There was a familiar pressure at the back of his eyes but he was damned if he was going to _cry_. Still, he had been trained from an early age to fear Morgan and, even though the twin was hardly threatening anymore, Treavor couldn't help the way he reacted to those dark eyes glittering with violence and a hunger for his pain.

Custis' eyes never left Treavor's face. They were wide, shocked. His mouth hung open uselessly; the stub of tongue wriggled back and forth as though he was trying to form words, to speak, to _plead_ with Treavor for help.

"He needs to see a doctor about his leg. I _won't_ have him crippled. Or else I'll take what he would have earned me out of your pay, do you understand?" Treavor snapped, jabbing a finger in the foreman's direction. "These slaves are _mine_ now and you will treat them as a _finite resource_. Until the blockade is lifted, there are _no more_."

"Yes, Lord Pendleton."

Treavor looked at the twins, both on all-fours in the dirt, bloody, trembling, wide-eyed. They had run the Pendleton name into the ground and dragged it through the mud with their appalling antics at court. There was virtually no money left from the family fortune. Father would have been disgusted with them. "After he has seen a doctor, put them both in the hot box for two hours. And halve their rations for a week," Treavor added in a low, cold voice.

A small noise escaped Custis, not quite a whimper. The muscles of Morgan's shoulders tensed.

"I… I should be back next week to see how things are doing," Treavor said. "I expect these two to be broken by then."

"Very good, Lord Pendleton."

Treavor cried quietly to himself on the ride back to Dunwall. In his fist, he had crumpled up the anonymous note. The twins were alive and some part of Treavor thanked the heavens for that. Hell, he was so grateful that he even considered making a monetary offering to the Abbey. He would also have to thank Corvo for sparing Morgan and Custis, but he would think about _that_ when he returned to the Hound Pits Pub.

There was little doubt that the elder Pendleton brothers did not deserve their fate. Treavor decided that he would give it one more week – until the corrupt Lord Regent was gone and Lady Emily was crowned and the city was back on its feet – and then he would return to the silver mines and retrieve his brothers. Yes, they would be broken and yes, they would be weak, but he couldn't let them languish in the silver mines until they dropped dead. Or were caught in a tunnel collapse.

They were _Pendletons_ dammit, and they would not end their lives in such horrible conditions. No, Treavor would bring them back to Pendleton Manor. He would find them the best doctors. He would give them time to heal and he would show them just how much he cared and he would run the businesses in their stead and then… then everything would be _different_. A fresh start for the Pendletons. And then, Treavor would have the family that he had always longed for.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **The fate of the Pendleton twins from their perspective. I also brought Treavor into it because I wanted to show just how drunk with power he had become (which I think is one of the reasons the Loyalist Conspiracy ultimately failed in the end)._

* * *

By the time they dragged the twins out of the metal sheds, the sun had slipped low in the sky, casting molten rays and long shadows across the crater. Custis was released from the hot box first. He couldn't stand, he was almost blind with exhaustion and thirst, but somehow – _somehow_ – he found the strength to stumble along as the slave-masters pushed him. The alternative, he figured, was far worse; he could endure a few unbearable moments of pain if it meant he wasn't beaten senseless.

When they pulled Morgan out of the metal shed, he was limp, body convulsing. Only the whites of his eyes were visible and there was foam at the corner of his mouth. His leg was a mess of congealed blood and a half-assed attempt at bandaging the savage dog bite. The slave-masters dragged him through the dirt by the collar and began to beat him, as though to rouse him from the heat-induced seizure.

Custis moaned, his legs already carrying him to his brother, his mirror image, his other half. Morgan's pain was his pain; his strength was Morgan's strength. A jumble of vowels and half-formed words came from his raw lips, nothing that anybody would be able to understand.

_No! Stop hurting him! Enough! ENOUGH!_

A rough hand yanked on Custis' collar and he hit the dirt. Gravel stung in his wounds, making him wince and dry-sob. His skin was soft from years of touching only the most expensive silks and luxurious bath oils. Soon, though, he would build up a rough coat of scabs and scars, just as the other slaves had.

Morgan was still unconscious. The slave-masters had taken to kicking him, their boots leaving blossoms of bruises on his flesh (like Custis', also soft).

Custis screamed, helplessly, and tried to drag himself towards his brother. If he could just communicate _something_ to the brutes with the whips and bludgeons, he might be able to protect him. Hoarse sounds rose in his throat, snatches of begging and pleading that he tried to make intelligible. But the slave-masters just laughed and continued beating Morgan.

The clever, sharp-tongued Custis Pendleton whose words could enthral the entirety of Parliament House was no more; now, he was just a pathetic mute.

_Stop! He'll die if you keep this up! STOP! You promised Treavor – you promised that snivelling sack of shit, that sorry excuse for a Pendleton – that you weren't going to kill us!_

Something thick and hard – a bludgeon, or someone's fist – came down across his face and he saw nothing but white, heard nothing but his own ragged breathing. When his vision returned, he couldn't feel his head. He could only feel the hand on his collar, hauling him through the dirt. He watched as the other slave-masters grabbed Morgan by the wrists and pulled him along.

Some of the other slaves, the ones pushing carts or carting tools, halted momentarily to watch the two white twins be dragged through the dirt, like animals being dragged along the slaughterhouse floor. Custis wanted to scream at them, to tell them that _he_ owned them all, and that _Morgan_ had signed the papers for each and every one of them, committing their lives to the Pendleton mines, and the lives of their family, and the lives of their children to come.

But, without his tongue, he could do nothing but wail.

* * *

In the darkness of the tunnel, Custis cradled Morgan's head in his lap. The larger twin had stopped spasming but remained limp and ill. There was a dish of food – if it was possible to call the stale crust of bread and the gluggy handful of paste _food_ – at Custis' side. Not nearly enough for the both of them. Treavor had made sure of that, asking the slave-masters to cut their rations in half.

A stab of cold fury twisted his intestines.

_Treavor. _Stupid, screaming, weak, pathetic, baby Treavor. The blot – the _cancer_ – on the Pendleton name. He wasn't supposed to live for more than a few days after birth, but he had clung to life like a parasite clinging to a host. He had lived and he had thrived, despite the twins' best efforts to quash him. He was in charge now. He…

Custis' shoulders slumped.

_He owns us now_.

There was a single canteen of water to be shared in the tunnel amongst the other slaves but it did not make its way to the twins. Morgan usually frightened the others into handing it over but he was unconscious, and Custis was alone. The thought made him tremble. Dark eyes, illuminated by the dim lanterns strung along the length of the tunnel, watched him. Custis shifted and felt his bare foot touch the hard, reassuring form of his axe.

When Morgan came to, he was blind with rage. He screamed and roared and beat his fists upon the jagged rock-face. Custis knew why; he could recognize very nuance in his brother's face, from the glaring hatred in his eyes to the tight panic of his nostrils. He was overcome with utter disbelief at seeing Treavor, at seeing him look down upon them like they were _nothing_, at hearing him give the order to have them punished.

Morgan refused to mine. He would _not_ help to put money in Treavor's pocket – money for his favourite wines and his favourite whores. Money that rightfully belonged to the twins, to the _true_ heads of the Pendleton family. He only picked up his axe once, to put it through the skull of a slave who got in his way during yet another escape attempt. Custis, howling helplessly for his brother to _stop_ and to stay with him in the tunnel and to _not_ leave him _alone_, could recall with startling clarity how Morgan had effectively collapsed the front of the slave's face, how quickly dark blood and grey brain matter had pooled beneath the thin body…

The larger twin's disobedience earned him another few hours in the hot box and a severe beating that left him unable to walk. He had to be dragged back to the tunnel and Custis could do nothing but hold him and make soothing noises and press his bare hands over the weeping wounds as Morgan whimpered and his face contorted in pain and terror.

Custis bowed his head. They were trying to break Morgan, his twin, his other half, his mirror image, the man who had shared his very first breath and who (Custis had always hoped) would be there at the very end. They were trying to break him, and they were succeeding.

* * *

It was astonishing how much things could change in such a small amount of time. Treavor made a second visit to the mines, not two days after his first, and he asked to see Custis. Nobody made any objections or asked any questions; they simply did as they were ordered and dragged him from the tunnel to where Treavor was waiting.

The elder Pendleton stood in a workshop, where slave collars and mining tools were crudely crafted, and watched his younger brother pace around, examining this or that. He was almost unrecognizable: his shoulders were square and strong, his chin tipped imperiously, his strides long and purposeful. He had abandoned his mourning garments and instead wore light blue, a color that brought out the paleness of his eyes and that neither Morgan nor Custis would have _ever_ considered wearing. Gold glittered at his waist, his necktie, his index finger. His boots were freshly polished. His hair was neat, his fingernails manicured. He looked every part the nobleman – and that hurt Custis in a way that he hadn't thought possible.

The scrawny little lord rested his hip against a workbench, folding his arms across his chest, and he openly regarded the twin who stood before him. Custis felt a flush of shame and anger rise in his cheeks. Next to Treavor's finery, he was positively _disgusting_ to behold: his hair was beginning to grow back, patchy and ragged around the lumps and scrapes on his scalp and a scratchy bear had started to pepper his jaw and chin. Soon, the hair would be roughly shaved away by the slave-masters, lest there be an infestation of lice amongst the workers. He could feel how his skin was crusted with dirt and dried blood and sweat and other unmentionable things. He had grown thin, his once-lean muscles wasting away from starvation and excessive physical exertion. He was barefoot, and shackles hung heavily on his ankles and wrists; the collar weighed on his neck, digging into his throat.

He only knew what he looked like, how far he had fallen, because of Morgan. When Custis looked at that matching face and regarded that identical body, he could see how _horrible_ everything had become and how _pitiful_ they were. It was unbearable to behold but he could not _not_ look at Morgan. His twin was reassuring, comforting. He reminded Custis that he still existed, even if his existence was lowly and degrading. In the darkness of the tunnel, they only had each other. He had always wanted it like that – just he and Morgan and fuck the rest of them – but not under such appalling circumstances. He hadn't wanted it to just be him and Morgan out of _necessity_, but rather because Morgan desired it too.

As if he could read Custis' thoughts, Treavor said, conversationally, "I hear Morgan has been less than cooperative with the slave-masters." He inspected his fingernails, brushed away an imaginary speck of dirt with the tip of his thumb. "They expect he'll be broken soon."

Custis swallowed, hard. The growing hollowness in Morgan's eyes, and the way his shoulders sagged as though beneath a great weight, flashed in his mind's eye. He made no move to acknowledge Treavor's remark, but he didn't need to: his reaction was written all over his face, from the trembling of his bottom lip to the unwanted tears pricking at his eyes.

Treavor smirked, coldly. "Corvo was going to kill you, you know," he said. "But he found an alternative, one that he thought I might find more palatable."

_What_, Custis thought, fists clenching, _do you want me to be grateful, you weedy little prick?_

"I get the best of both worlds: nobody knows where you are, they all suspect the worst, and when I'm blue, I just take a carriage down here and watch you and Morgan work in the hot sun."

Custis looked away. He looked at his bare feet, at the rough stone floor of the workshop. He had to look anywhere but at the triumphant glitter shining in Treavor's eyes. It was too much. For a moment, he considered whether or not death would have been better. At least he and Morgan wouldn't have been reduced to such an embarrassing existence. At least they would have died as noblemen. At least they wouldn't have been forced to watch Treavor swan around, positively _drunk_ with power.

He was prattling on about Hiram Burrows' latest attempts to bribe him for support for the upcoming parliamentary vote. His voice was conspicuously loud, nasally and smug and sharp, next to Custis' enforced silence. With a theatrical sigh, he said, "That bald fool has offered me the deeds to several exquisite properties – acquired, _ahem_, through quite questionable means. But the way I see it, those people were kicked out of their homes and, chances are, they're either dead or dying of the plague now, so what does it matter?"

Anger flared, weakly, in Custis' limbs. Even if he'd had the strength to attack Treavor – to knock out his teeth and pulverize the smirk from his thin lips and break every bone in his body – he wouldn't have dared; a City Watch escort lingered just outside of the workshop, ready to jump in at the first sign of trouble. All Custis could do was listen and stare and fight to keep his breathing level.

For the first time in a long time, he really felt the emptiness in his mouth where his tongue used to be. It was a vacuum, a hole, threatening to turn him inside-out; idly, he wondered if Morgan felt the same.

Treavor finished his hypocritical spiel – after all, he had always denounced the twins for the way they sold their parliamentary votes in exchange for favors and money from Dunwall's elite and, in particular, the Lord Regent. But baby Treavor seemed to qualify it all with "I'm not simply _giving away_ my votes to aid Burrows without _some_ kind of consideration. I don't support certain of his motions but if he needs, say, backing for extra security checkpoints or extending the powers of the City Watch, who am I to stand in his way if he pays me accordingly?"

Custis was beginning to feel weak from standing. Sweat pricked at his scalp, stinging fresh wounds. His knees began to tremble.

"Do you need to sit down?" Treavor asked, arching an eyebrow. His tone was indecipherable. Perhaps it was concerned but there was a thick streak of mockery and delight there, too. He was thoroughly enjoying seeing his elder brother so uncomfortable, so powerless.

Slowly, reluctantly, Custis nodded.

"That's a shame. Because you will stand in my presence until I say otherwise."

Custis swallowed, and he almost shuddered as he felt the gruesome stump of his tongue brush against the back of his throat.

Then Treavor started on the Boyle ladies. Apparently Waverly had been fucking the Lord Regent – which didn't quite come as a surprise to Custis when he thought back to all those splendid parties where he had seen Burrows and Waverly deep in conversation with one another; she was drawn to power, and he was drawn to her cold beauty – and her substantial funds, if Treavor's story was anything to go by. Since she had been Burrows' strongest financial backer, she had to be dealt with.

That was Treavor's phrasing. _Dealt with. _

Custis was momentarily horrified by how detached his younger brother was about the whole thing. _You loved her once. You walked around Pendleton Hall gloating about how you and Waverly were going to be married. When Morgan and I got close to her and she betrayed you, you were heartbroken – you were _hysterical_. And now you're speaking about her as though she meant nothing to you! _

"So," Treavor said, lips curling with cold venom, "Waverly has been taken in by Brisby – which, I hear, he is _thrilled_ about. And I plan to make arrangements to propose to one of the other sisters. Esma's too old, but that never stopped Morgan from having his fill of her, hmm? She's only good for one thing, so perhaps I will take her on the side. That only leaves Lydia…"

He scoffed. "Well, she's nothing special but I think she would make a rather nice wife. I doubt anybody else will be lining up to ask for her hand, so she'll probably _leap_ at my proposal. Especially since I've recently acquired a new title and new allies in Parliament, and the financial projections for the rest of the month show that the fortune should be built up again in no time, if all continues smoothly. When the blockade is lifted, I'm thinking we might travel down to Serkonos for our honeymoon."

Treavor cocked his head at Custis, who simply stared back, as impassively as he could muster.

"And do you know what that will mean, my marrying one of the Boyles? I'll get _all_ that land you so desperately wanted, Custis. Do you remember? You went to Boyle Manor with _three crates_ of imported wine _and_ a new harpsichord for Lydia – and Waverly wouldn't even come to the door to see you! She left you standing on the doorstep like a _snubbed date_ and told you that she would be _dust_ before she gave you an _inch_ of her land. Do you remember that, _hmm_?"

A washed-out flush rose in Custis' cheeks. He couldn't answer – and Treavor knew this! It was a rhetorical question, obviously, one designed to cut Custis right to the bone. And it did. He recalled with frightening clarity calling – _screaming_ – for Waverly Boyle to sit down with him and have the papers drawn up. He had already made plans for the land, and for its rare, exquisite crystals, but that cold little viper was having none of it whatsoever, and had turned him out on his ass like he was _nothing_. Less than nothing.

He moaned, a weak broken sound that was his only substitute for words.

Treavor visibly flinched at the noise; perhaps he hadn't expected Custis to make an attempt at a reply. "What," he sneered, "did I _upset_ you?"

_Why are you telling me all these things?! What could you possibly hope to gain!? What do you want me to do, fall down on my knees and sob at your feet!?_

"You brought the family name to the brink of destruction, Custis. You and Morgan both," Treavor spat, a facial tic contorting his features. "You… you helped in the kidnapping of an _Empress_! You kept her in that bath house for _six months_! You spent _everything_. You were the Regent's _scapegoats_ and you allowed yourselves to be _used_ and for _what_? Was it worth it, _hmm_?" His hackles rose. "Father would have been absolutely _ashamed_ of you."

_You don't understand_, Custis wanted to say, _and you never will. Father never taught you about business, he taught ME. You didn't read the ledgers, Treavor, I DID! You couldn't see the family coffers being cleaned out – by you too, you damn hypocrite! You and your whores and your wine! Don't put yourself up on a pedestal and lay all the blame on us. I HAD NO CHOICE!_

He trembled, violently. The cuffs on his ankles and wrists rattled.

Treavor made a noise of disgust, deep in his throat, and turned away from the twin as though he couldn't bear to look at him. "I'm setting things straight," he said, voice low and level. "A new era for the Pendleton name. By the time all of this is over, I'll be a _hero_. One of the men who helped to restore the rightful heir to the throne and who helped to bring down a corrupt dictator." He rounded on Custis, nose wrinkling. "And they'll all see how I managed well enough without you and Morgan. They'll see how they _all_ underestimated me. And when the time comes, I'll be able to pick and choose from the lot of them."

Custis held his younger brother's gaze and then, slowly, he shuffled to one of the work desks and fumbled for some paper and a pen. He hadn't held a pen in a long time; his palms were rough with calluses and blisters (some half-healed, others raw and weeping). The closest thing he had ever had to a callus was a hardened lump on the middle finger of his right hand that had built up over several years spent with a pen in his hand, poring over books and writing letters. He had always been so careful to keep his hands soft and unmarked – he and Morgan had always worn gloves when they went riding or shooting – and, sometimes, he had even paid one of the whores at the Cat to massage fragrant oils and lotions into his skin.

Now, he couldn't recognize his hands, with their bitten-down nails and ragged cuticles; dirt was encrusted in every crease and fold of his skin. The cuffs on his wrists were tight, rubbing him raw.

As though falling into an old, familiar rhythm, he began to write out a note to Treavor. The pen initially felt odd in his hand – his fingers were so used to gripping mining tools – but, within the first few words, he was _himself_ again. He angled his wrist so as not to smudge ink on the side of his hand and he finished writing with a small flourish. He blew on the paper – not caring how absolutely _ridiculous_ he looked – and then passed it to Treavor.

"'Stop being so cruel, Treavor. This is not who you are. You are not a cruel person'," he read, blithely. He regarded Custis over the note, eyebrows rising on his long forehead. Then, he crumpled the note in his fist. "I'm not being _cruel_, Custis. Far from it. Well, Waverly's situation might be a _little_ different – and yes, I do take great delight in her circumstances so if that's cruel of me, then I'm _cruel_. But with you and Morgan, this isn't cruelty. This is _justice_. Revenge. This is me being _fair_."

He tossed the note into the forge fires of a large stone hearth and, back to Custis, continued talking: "I don't know what the _hell_ I did to you – both of you – to make you hate me so. We were supposed to be _brothers_. I-I looked up to you two, you know. For a little while at least. It took me a very long time to realize that you didn't want me."

_That's right_, Custis thought, lips curling with a snarl, _you _were_ unwanted. It was supposed to just be me and Morgan. Just he and I. Just the two of us and nobody else. _

"I wasn't _clever_ like you or _strong_ like Morgan. I was just this _nobody _in the background. You two were Father's golden children. You were _everybody's_ favorites. I taught myself to expect _nothing_ while you two were around – and that was fine except that you didn't _deserve _it all. You defiled our legacy and you blackened the family name and now–" Treavor's breath caught in his throat and he stiffened. Slowly, he pivoted on his heel and looked at Custis. "And now look at you. Look where you both ended up. Look where you _allowed_ yourself to end up. I tried to help you – I really did – but you wanted none of it. You didn't _want_ my help and now… this." He shook his head, disgusted, and then turned back to the flames.

Custis was sure he could see the shine of tears in Treavor's eyes, though it was hard to tell.

"I'm not _cruel_. I'm not like the two of you. You were _masters_ of cruelty." Treavor sniffed tartly. "I'm teaching you both a lesson, the harshest kind I know. When I first saw you both the other day, I… I _cried_ because I couldn't believe that you were alive and that you were _here_ of all places. And then I thought on it and I decided that I wanted you to know how it felt, to be nothing and to have nothing. I want you _both_ to know one _fraction_ of what you put me through!"

Custis growled, weakly. This life of slavery was _nothing_ like what the twins had done to Treavor over the years. To hear Treavor compare the two made him furious, but he checked himself and simply looked away.

"When things are better," Treavor continued, voice decidedly soft, "and Burrows is gone from the throne, I'll take you out of here. We'll go back home and everything will be better."

Custis' raw lips parted and he made a small whimpering noise of…

Relief? Hope? Was what Treavor was saying _true_?

"I've been speaking with Anton Sokolov. He says that he _might_ be able to transplant new tongues into you – but first he needs to conduct a few – ah – _experiments_ with live tissues." Treavor's jaw clenched, as though fighting down a wave of nausea. "It's not a sure thing yet, fixing… _that_. But I thought you should know."

Treavor moved to the door but Custis intercepted him and seized his wrist.

_When? When will you take us out of here? WHEN!?_

"Don't touch me," Treavor hissed, wrenching his arm away. He inspected his wrist, wiping away grime and dirt and blood from his skin with a small snarl on his lips. "Don't _appeal_ to me now, Custis. I'm doing this because I know it's what Father would have wanted. I'm doing this because there's no need for you to _die_ here. You and Morgan both deserve it – more than anybody else, I think – but you're _Pendletons_ and that means more to me than any sadistic delight I might get out of hearing you both died in a mining accident. Perhaps, when the city is back on its feet and all that, we might be…" Treavor's voice cracked. "… what I always imagined we _should_ be."

He waved his hand impatiently, urging Custis to stand aside, and then smirked. "Burrows should be gone within forty-eight hours. Once certain things are in order then I'll come back. I'll have doctors lined up for you, and long-term care at the manor."

Custis shook his head. _We won't last that long, Treavor. Morgan won't last that long. They're breaking him. Do you understand? They're BREAKING HIM. _

"I said, _don't touch me!"_ Treavor cried as Custis once again grabbed his wrist in a gesture of imploring. The younger Pendleton took several steps backwards, eyes wide, hands raised defensively. "Don't. Touch. Me. You don't have the _right_. I may not be cruel, Custis, but that doesn't mean I'm not capable of cruelty. After all, I learned from the best."

Custis blanched. What did that mean? Was he going to leave them both in the mine? Was he going to walk away and leave them to die in the tunnel? He blinked, rapidly, and mirrored Treavor, taking several steps back. Slowly, he nodded.

Satisfied, Treavor tossed his head. "Do look after Morgan. He depends on you," he drawled, and then he snapped his fingers at the City Watch escort and was whisked away to a waiting carriage.

Custis, standing there, watched him go – and he felt something twist in his heart. And then he felt a rough hand yank hard on his collar and he was dragged back to the mine shaft to complete his shift. Morgan was there, curled up in the damp dirt, body trembling. Custis grabbed one of the lanterns from the rock-face and held it over his twin; he could see puncture wounds and angry red arches peppering Morgan's flesh where the slave-masters had left him alone in the dog pen to be chewed on like dinner scraps. Punishment for yet another escape attempt.

With a cry of despair, Custis knelt by his brother and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Morgan stiffened, head snapping up. In the semi-darkness of the tunnel, his eyes were glittering like those of an animal. When he saw it was only Custis, face contorted with pain, he slumped to the dirt, whimpering, and extended a hand.

Custis laced his fingers with Morgan's and held his brother's hand against his chest, wanting – _needing_ – him to feel his heartbeat.


End file.
